“Mom said she’ll get me a decent bass if we make the cut,” Jordan says. “Instead of this crappy used one we got off Craigslist.”
“Well, then, let’s see about getting you a new bass,” boy-me says.
We practice “Rebel Girl” twice, then stop for cheese puffs and Mountain Dew. While we eat, I explain the basics of reading notes on a treble clef. By the time Mom arrives to pick me up, confident Asher is running the show, explaining the difference between major and minor chords and how volume makes a sound louder but gain makes it bigger. Correcting Olivia’s beats. Even showing off a little on the keyboard. I thank Zoey for an awesome time and tell the girls they rocked my face right off.
It takes only the short car ride home for the war between girl and punk and boy and skirt to start raging inside me. By the time we’re home, Dad’s words are ringing in my head and I’m more torn than ever about what I am. About who gets to make the first move. About which gender confident punk-rock songwriter is, and why I have it in my head that only boy-me can handle that role when Mom would say my gender doesn’t matter a whit for something like that.
It’s so freaking complicated. A math equation with too many variables.
Griffey sighs as he watches me pull my sleeping bag out of the washer and shove it in a dryer. He went on what he called “the world’s most awkward bumper-bowling date” tonight with a dude from his English class and needed to vent about the disaster, so I told him to meet me at the laundry room on the first floor of building F. For the past ten minutes, he’s been explaining exactly how stupid boys are.
It’s making me feel gross after the boy bashing at Zoey’s band practice. But I’m not gonna ask him to stop. This was his first actual date and it’s a big deal to him. The least I can do is ignore my problems and listen to his.
“Sooooo,” he finally says. “Did you tell Daniel yet?”
“Ugh, no.” I put my empty laundry basket upside down on my head and squat on the floor. “I’m just gonna hide in here till I figure out if I’m a boy or a girl.”
He pulls his arms inside his hoodie and twists so the sleeves flop. “You’re neither. Your gender is turtle.”
I snort a laugh. “Guess that’s better than airport. But maybe I should be yours. Wacky waving inflatable tube dude.”
“Ignoring your problems just gives them a chance to level up.”
“Did you get that off a motivational poster at school?” I take the basket off my head and feed the dryer a few quarters. “I want to go with Daniel tomorrow to bring Chewbarka to his dad’s. But Mom wants me to go to a PFLAG meeting with her. Which, like, I don’t even know if I’m gay.” I guess I’m headed that way, though. Being a guy, liking a guy . . . it adds up.
And I don’t think Daniel’s gay.
Griffey whacks my arm with his empty sleeve. “I’d shave off an eyebrow to have a mom who wanted me to go to any kind of LGBT support meeting with her.”
I twist the knob on the dryer. I feel guilty that my mom’s so supportive, even if maybe she’s too supportive, when Griffey’s mom is super religious and regularly tells him he’s going to hell for liking boys. “You could go in my place. I’m pretty sure my mom thinks of you as her auxiliary kid.”
“I wish I could just have your mom.” He shoves his hands through his sleeves, then gives me a let’s-strike-a-deal look. “Tell you what. If you promise to tell Daniel the truth tomorrow, I’ll tell your mom I got rejected by a boy and need your support in the form of another overnight.”
I start the dyer. “It’s like you’re helping, but you’re not helping.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt. That video Camille took of those buttwads made me realize I might actually be capable of strangling another human being.” He grimaces. “I hate what they did to you.”
“They didn’t hurt me.” Not really. “And I don’t think Daniel would do . . . that. But it still freaks me out wondering what he’d do if he found out.”
“Since you kissed him already, you sort of have to tell him. Don’t you think?”
I hop up and sit on the dryer. “What part of ‘You’re not helping’ did you miss?”
“The part where I don’t want some jerk to turn on you when he finds out you’re not always a girl. Or did you miss that?”
“We’re talking in circles.”
Griff wrinkles his nose and his glasses slide down. “There’s an easy way to solve that. You know what’s great about being out? Literally everything. You should try it.”
“I did. It did not go well.” I never really came out at me and Griff’s elementary school. I just obliviously assumed it was fine to go to school dressed like a boy some days and a girl other days, because in first and second grade, no one seemed to care. But the older we got, the more my gender became a Big Freakin’ Deal. “What if you felt like you had to choose a side?” I ask. “What if people gave you a bunch of crap when you switched?”
“Ash. Your dad’s a flaming jerk. Okay? You don’t have to decide. For him or anyone else. You can be in between, or one sometimes and the other sometimes. Or a mix. Look at Sam and Mara. They don’t give a crap what people say about them.” He flicks a lint ball at me. “Just think about coming out, okay? To Daniel, to everyone. You could be so much happier.”
Funny how Dad said I would be happier if I’d pick-and-stick. How
